If we mix the letters around, dogs are actually gods. And trust me, my dog Rocket thinks he's God. There are no rules in his world. Rules such as eating my chairs, digging in my flower pots, shredding our shoes, and taking a dump in the middle of the street. Rocket, have you no shame?
And he eats fucking everything. Last week he pooped out a purple glitter pen. You'd think that would've been painful, but apparently he has an ass of steel because it didn't phase him one bit. I could hear him thinking, "That's nothing, but the fork I ate last week might be a challenge."
Feeding him is almost worse than feeding two daughters that never eat. I have to make it tantalizing with shredded cheese. Isn't it enough that his dog food has fucking blueberries in it? But no, the cheese is required.
I went cold turkey for a week. No cheese. He'd walk over, smell it, then look at me. "You kidding me with this, bitch? Walk your ass over to fridge and get the goods, pronto." He didn't eat for 4 days. He was having hallucinations and bumping into walls, so I gave in.
He's not just picky about food, either. He's choosy about his ladies too. He doesn't just sniff butts and hump on the neighbor dogs. He has a girlfriend. Or rather, a harem, of Barbies. He's obsessed with them. He rips their clothes off and takes them to his diabolical lair (under the dining room table).
One of the Barbies sings Miley Cyrus songs when he pushes a button on her chest. It will be midnight, we're all sleeping, and then, "IF YOU COULD SEE, THE OTHER SIDE OF ME, I'M NOT LIKE ANYBODY ELSE, CAN'T YA TELL...". I picture him changing into a smoking jacket and turning on a secret disco ball after all the stupid humans go to bed.
But all the shitty stuff aside, he's a good little fella. Handsome too. This is the first dog we've had and we wonder why we didn't get one sooner. He is, quite simply, a part of our family. For better or worse.